■■■vOM. 




THE MAGIC HOUSE 



THE 

MAGIC HOUSE 



AND OTHER POEMS 

BY 
DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT 



^ 




BOSTON 

COPELAND AND DA^ 

1895 



AUTC 



PR(bo37 



By Transfer 

D. C. Public Lilmury 

FEB 2 8 1938 






TO 



MY MOTHER 



a2 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A LITTLE SONG 

The sunset in the rosy west, .... i 

THE HILL PATH 

Are the little breezes blind, .... 2 

THE VOICE AND THE DUSK 

The slender moon and one pale star, . . 5 

FOR REMEMBRANCE 

It would be sweet to think when we are old, . 7 

THE MESSAGE 

Wind of the gentle summer night, . . 8 

THE SILENCE OF LOVE 

My heart would need the earth, . . . 10 

AN IMPROMPTU 

The stars are in the ebon sky, . . , 1 1 



viii CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FROM THE FARM ON THE HILL 

The night wind moves the gloom^ . . , 13 

AT SCARBORO' BEACH 

The wave is over the foaming reef, . 1 5 

THE FIFTEENTH OF APRIL 

Pallid saifron glows the broken stubble, . 17 

IN AN OLD QUARRY 

Above the lifeless pools the mist films swim, . 19 

TO WINTER 

Come, O thou conqueror of the flying year, , 20 

TO WINTER 

Come, O thou season of intense repose, . 21 

THE IDEAL 

Let your soul grow a thing apart, ... 22 

A SUMMER STORM 

Last night a storm fell on the world, . . 23 

LIFE AND DEATH 

I thought of death beside the lonely sea, . 25 



CONTENTS ix 

PAGE 

IN THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 

This is the acre of unfathomed rest^ . . 26 

SONG 

I have done, 32 

THE MAGIC HOUSE 

In her chamber, wheresoe'er, • • • 33 

IN THE HOUSE OF DREAMS 

The lady Lillian knelt upon the sward, . . 36 

THE RIVER TOWN 

There 's a town where shadows run, . . 38 

OFF THE ISLE AUX COUDRES 

The moon, Capella, and the Pleiades, . . 40 

AT LES EBOULEMENTS 

The bay is set with ashy sails, . . . 41 

ABOVE ST. IRENEE 

I rested on the breezy height, ... 42 

WRITTEN IN A. LAMPMAN'S POEMS 

When April moved in maiden guise, . . 45 



X CONTENTS 

, PAGE 

OFF RIVIERE DU LOUP 

ship incoming from the sea, ... 48 

AT THE CEDARS 

You had two girls — Baptiste — . . . -So 

THE END OF THE DAY 

1 hear the bells at eventide, . . . .54 

THE REED-PLAYER 

By a dim shore where water darkening, . . 56 

A FLOCK OF SHEEP 

Over the field the bright air clings and tingles, 58 

A PORTRAIT 

All her hair is softly set, 60 

AT THE LATTICE 

Good-night, Marie, I kiss thine eyes, . . 63 

THE FIRST SNOW 

The field pools gathered into frosted lace, . 64 

IN NOVEMBER 

The ruddy sunset lies, . . . . .66 



CONTENTS xi 

PAGE 

THE SLEEPER 

Touched with some divine repose^ . . .68 

A NIGHT IN JUNE 

The world is heated seven times_, . . .70 

MEMORY 

I see a schooner in the bay^ . . . .72 

YOUTH AND TIME 

Move not so lightly^ Time^ away, . . ' IZ 

A MEMORY OF THE INFERNO' 

An hour before the dawn I dreamed of you, . 74 

LA BELLE FERONIERE, 

I never trod where Leonardo was, . . -75 

A NOVEMBER DAY 

There are no clouds above the world, . . 76 

OTTAWA 

City about whose brow the north winds blow, . >]% 

SONG 

Here 's the last rose, 79 



xii CONTENTS 

PAGE 

NIGHT AND THE PINES 

Here in the pine shade is the nest of nighty . 80 

A NIGHT IN MARCH 

At eve the fiery sun went forth^ . , .82 

SEPTExMBER 

The morns are grey with haze and faintly cold^ 86 

BY THE WILLOW SPRING 

Come hither. Care, and look on this fair place, S7 



A LITTLE SONG 

The sunset in the rosy west 

Burned soft and high ; 
A shore-lark fell like a stone to his nest 

In the waving rye. 

A wind came over the garden beds 

From the dreamy lawn, 
The pansies nodded their purple heads. 

The poppies began to yawn. 

One pansy said : It is only sleep. 

Only his gentle breath : 
But a rose lay strewn in a snowy heap, 

For the rose it was only death. 

Heigho, we Ve only one life to live. 

And only one death to die : 
Good-morrow, new world, have you nothing 
to give ? — 

Good-bye, old world, good-bye. 



THE HILL PATH 



THE HILL PATH 

TO H. D. S. 

Are the little breezes blind. 
They that push me as they pass ? 
Do they search the tangled grass 
For some path they want to find ? 
Take my fingers, little wind ; 
You are all alone, and I 
Am alone too. I will guide. 
You will follow ; let us go 
By a pathway that I know. 
Leading down the steep hillside. 
Past the little sharp-lipped pools. 
Shrunken with the summer sun. 
Where the sparrows come to drink ; 
And we'll scare the little birds. 
Coming on them unawares ; 
And the daisies every one 



THE HILL PATH 

We will startle on the brink 

Of a doze. 

(Gently, gently, little wind). 

Very soon a wood we '11 see. 

There my lover waits for me. 

(Go more gently, little wind, 

You should follow soft, behind.) 

You will hear my lover say 

How he loves me night and day. 

But his words you must not tell 

To the other little winds. 

For they all might come to hear. 

And might rustle through the wood. 

And disturb the solitude. 

(Blow more softly, little wind. 

You are tossing all my hair. 

Go more gently, have a care ; 

If you lead you can't be blind. 

So, — good-bye :) 

There he goes : I see his feet 

On the grass; 

Now the little pools are blurred 

As they pass ; 

And he must be very fleet. 



THE HILL PATH 

For I see the bushes stirred 
Near the wood. I hope he '11 tell. 
If he isn't out of breath. 
That he met me on the hill. 
But I hope he will not say 
That he kissed me for good-bye 
Just before he flew away. 



THE VOICE AND THE DUSK 



^ THE VOICE AND THE DUSK 

The slender moon and one pale star^ 

A rose-leaf and a silver bee 
From some god's garden blown afar_, 

Go down the gold deep tranquilly. 

Within the south there rolls and grows 
A mighty town with tower and spire, 

From a cloud bastion masked with rose 
The lightning flashes diamond fire. 

The purple-martin darts about 

The purlieus of the iris fen ; 
The king-bird rushes up and out, 

He screams and whirls and screams again. 

A thrush is hidden in a maze 

Of cedar buds and tamarac bloom, 

He throws his rapid flexile phrase, 
A flash of emeralds in the gloom. 



THE VOICE AND THE DUSK 

A voice is singing from the hill 
A happy love of long ago ; 

Ah ! tender voice, be still, be still, 
' Tis sometimes better not to know. 

The rapture from the amber height 
Floats tremblingly along the plain. 

Where in the reeds with fairy light 
The lingering fireflies gleam again. 

Buried in dingles more remote. 
Or drifted from some ferny rise, 

The swooning of the golden throat 
Drops in the mellow dusk and dies. 

A soft wind passes lightly drawn, 
A wave leaps silverly and stirs 

The rustling sedge, and then is gone 
Down the black cavern in the firs. 



FOR REMEMBRANCE 



FOR REMEMBRANCE 

It would be sweet to think when we are old 
Of all the pleasant days that came to pass^ 
That here we took the berries from the grass. 

There charmed the bees with pans, and smoke un- 
rolled. 

And spread the melon nets when nights were cold. 
Or pulled the blood-root in the underbrush. 
And marked the ringing of the tawny thrush. 

While all the west was broken burning gold. 

And so I bind with rhymes these memories ; 

As girls press pansies in the poet's leaves 
And find them afterwards with sweet surprise ; 

Or treasure petals mingled with perfume. 
Loosing them in the days when April grieves, — 

A subtle summer in the rainy room. 



THE MESSAGE 



THE MESSAGE 

Wind of the gentle summer night. 

Dwell in the lilac tree. 
Sway the blossoms clustered light. 

Then blow over to me. 

Wind, you are sometimes strong and great. 

You frighten the ships at sea. 
Now come floating your delicate freight 

Out of the lilac tree. 

Wind, you must waver a gossamer sail 

To ferry a scent so light. 
Will you carry my love a message as frail 

Through the hawk-haunted night .'* 

For my heart is sometimes strange and wild, 

Bitter and bold and free, 
I scare the beautiful timid child, 

As you frighten the ships at sea ; 



THE MESSAGE 9 

But now when the hawks are piercing the air. 

With the golden stars above, 
The only thing my heart can bear 

Is a lilac message of love. 

Gentle wind, will you carry this 

Up to her window white ; 
Give her a gentle tender kiss. 

Bid her good-night — good-night. 



10 THE SILENCE OF LOVE 



THE SILENCE OF LOVE 

My heart would need the earth, 
My voice would need the sea. 

To only tell the one half 
How dear you are to me. 

And if I had the winds, 

The stars and the planets as well, 
I might tell the other half. 

Or perhaps I would try to tell. 



AN IMPROMPTU 11 



AN IMPROMPTU 

The stars are in the ebon sky^ 

Burning, gold, alone ; 
The wind roars over the rolling earth. 

Like water over a stone. 

We are like things in a river-bed 

The stream runs over. 
They see the iris, and arrowhead, 

Anemone, and clover. 

But they cannot touch the shining things, 

For all their strife. 
For the strong river swirls and swings — 

And that is much like life. 

For life is a plunging and heavy stream, 
And there 's something bright above ; 

But the ills of breathing only seem. 
When we know the light is love. 



12 AN IMPROMPTU 

The stars are in the ebon sky, 

Burning, gold, alone ; 
The wind roars over the rolling earth. 

Like water over a stone. 



FROM THE FARM ON THE HILL 11 



FROM THE FARM ON THE HILL 

TO A. P. S. 

The night wind moves the gloom 
In the shadowy basswood ; 
Mysteriously the leaves sway and sing ; 
So slowj so tender is the wind^ 
The slender elm-tree 
Is hardly stirred. 

The sky is veiled with clouds, 
With diaphanous tissue ; 
Through their dissolving films 
The stars shine. 
But how infinitely removed ; 
How inaccessible ! 

In the distant city 
Under the obscure towers 
The lights of watchers gleam ; 



14 FROM THE FARM ON THE HILL 

From the dim fields 
At intervals in the silence 
A cuckoo utters 
A distorted cry ; 
Through the low woods. 
Haunted with vain melancholy, 
A whip-poor-will wanders. 
Forcing his monotonous song. 

All the ancient desire 

Of the human spirit 

Has returned upon me in this hour. 

All the wild longing 

That cannot be satisfied. 

Break, O anguish of nature. 

Into some glorious sound ! 

Let me touch the next circle of being. 

For I have compassed this life. 



AT SCARBORO' BEACH 15 



AT SCARBORO' BEACH 

The wave is over the foaming reef 

Leaping alive in the sun. 
Seaward the opal sails are blown 

Vanishing one by one. 

'Tis leagues around the blue sea curve 

To the sunny coast of Spain, 
And the ships that sail so deftly out 

May never come home again. 

A mist is wreathed round Richmond point, 
There 's a shadow on the land. 

But the sea is in the splendid sun. 
Plunging so careless and grand. 

The sandpipers trip on the glassy beach. 

Ready to mount and fly ; 
Whenever a ripple reaches their feet 

They ris6 with a timorous cry. 



16 AT SCARBORO' BEACH 

Take care, they pipe, take care, take care. 
For this is the treacherous main, 

And though you may sail so deftly out. 
You may never come home again. 



THE FIFTEENTH OF APRIL 17 



THE FIFTEENTH OF APRIL 

TO A. L. 

Pallid saffron glows the broken stubble. 
Brimmed with silver lie the ruts. 
Purple the ploughed hill ; 
Down a sluice with break and bubble 

Hollow falls the rill ; 
Falls and spreads and searches. 

Where, beyond the wood. 
Starts a group of silver birches. 
Bursting into bud. 

Under Venus sings the vesper sparrow, 
Down a path of rosy gold 

Floats the slender moon ; 
Ringing from the rounded barrow 

Rolls the robin's tune ; 



18 THE FIFTEENTH OF APRIL 

Lighter than the robin ; haiK ! 

Quivering silver-strong 
From the field a hidden shore-lark 

Shakes his sparkling song. 

Now the dewy sounds begin to dwindle, 
Dimmer grow the burnished rills, 
Breezes creep and halt. 
Soon the guardian night shall kindle 

In the violet vault. 
All the twinkling tapers 

Touched with steady gold. 
Burning through the lawny vapours 
Where they float and fold. 



IN AN OLD QUARRY 19 



IN AN OLD QUARRY 



NOVEMBER 



Above the lifeless pools the mist films swim. 
On the lowlands where sedges chaff and nod ; 
The withered fringes of the golden-rod 
Hang frayed and formless at the quarry's rim. 
Filled with the wine of sunset to the brim, 
These limestone pits are cups for the night god, 
Set for his lips when he strays hither, shod 
With shadows, all the stars following him. 
And as gloom grows and deepens like a psalm. 
This broken field which summer has passed by 
Has caught the ultimate lethean calm, 
The fabulous quiet of far Thessaly, 
And though the land has lost the bloom and balm. 
Nature is all content in liberty. 



20 TO WINTER 



TO WINTER 

Come, O thou conqueror of the flying year ; 
Come from thy fastness of the Arctic suns ; 
Mass on the purple waste and wide frontier 
Thy wanish hosts and silver clarions. 

Then heap this sombre shoulder of the world 
With shifting bastions ; let thy storm winds blare ; 
Drift wide thy pallid gonfalon unfurled ; 
And arm with daggers all the desperate air. 

These are but raids in dreams, and friendly brawls ; 

Thou art a gentle giant that half sleeps. 

And blusters grandly to his frozen thralls, 

The more to charm them with the wealth he keeps 

We hardly hear thy bluff and hearty word^ 
When over the first flower sings the first bird. 



TO WINTER 21 



TO WINTER 

Come, O thou season of intense repose ; 
Come with thy lidded eyes and crystal breath ; 
Come gently with thy soft release of snows ; 
And bring thy few short months of tender death. 

Build a huge tomb within the desert frore. 
With green clear chambers in the icy rift. 
Carve the sleep rune above the crystal door, 
And trench a legend in the pallid drift. 

Let the large stars about the horizon lie. 
Watching the confines of the world's great sleep ; 
Spread the vast province of the purple sky. 
With thy wan curtains dropped from deep to deep. 

Then hush the stir and bid the movement cease ; 
Pass gently, leave the tired world in peace. 



22 THE IDEAL 



THE IDEAL 

Let your soul grow a thing apart. 
Untroubled by the restless day. 

Sublimed by some unconscious art. 
Controlled by some divine delay. 

For life is greater than they think. 
Who fret along its shallow bars : 

Swing out the boom to float or sink 
And front the ocean and the stars. 



A SUMMER STORM 23 



A SUMMER STORM 

Last night a storm fell on the world 
From heights of drouth and heat^ 

The surly clouds for weeks were furled. 
The air could only sway and beat. 

The beetles clattered at the blind, 

The hawks fell twanging from the sky. 

The west unrolled a feathery wind. 
And the night fell sullenly. 

The storm leaped roaring from its lair. 

Like the shadow of doom. 
The poignard lightning searched the air. 

The thunder ripped the shattered gloom. 

The rain came down with a roar like fire. 
Full-voiced and clamorous and deep. 

The weary world had its heart's desire. 
And fell asleep. 



24 A SUMMER STORM 

And now in the morning early. 
The clouds are sailing by 

Clearly, oh! so clearly. 
The distant mountains lie. 

The wind is very mild and slow. 
The clouds obey his will, 

They part and part and onward go. 
Travelling together still. 

'Tis very sweet to be alive. 
On a morning that 's so fair. 

For nothing seems to stir or strive, 
In the unconscious air. 

A tawny thrush is in the wood. 
Ringing so wild and free ; 

Only one bird has a blither mood. 
The white-throat on the tree. 



LIFE AND DEATH 26 



LIFE AND DEATH 

I THOUGHT of death beside the lonely sea_, 
That went beyond the limit of my sight. 
Seeming the image of his mastery, 
The semblance of his huge and gloomy might. 

But firm beneath the sea went the great earth, 
With sober bulk and adamantine hold, 
The water but a mantle for her girth. 
That played about her splendour fold on fold. 

And life seemed like this dear familiar shore. 
That stretched from the wet sands' last wavy crease, 
Beneath the sea's remote and sombre roar. 
To inland stillness and the wilds of peace. 

Death seems triumphant only here and there ; 
Life is the sovereign presence everywhere. 



IN THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 



IN THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 

TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER 

This is the acre of unfathomed rest. 

These stones, with weed and lichen bound, enclose 
No active grief, no uncompleted woes. 
But only finished work and harboured quest. 

And balm for ills ; 
And the last gold that smote the ashen west 

Lies garnered here between the harvest hills. 

This spot has never known the heat of toil. 
Save when the angel with the mighty spade 
Has turned the sod and built the house of shade ; 
But here old chance is guardian of the soil ; 

Green leaf and grey. 
The barrows blossom with the tangled spoil, 

And God's own weeds are fair in God's own 
way. 



IN THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 27 

Sweet flowers may gather in the ferny wood : 
Hepaticas, the morning stars of spring ; 
The bloodroots with their milder ministering. 
Like planets in the lonelier solitude ; 

And that white throng. 
Which shakes the dingles with a starry brood. 
And tells the robin his forgotten song. 

These flowers may rise amid the dewy fern, 
They may not root within this antique wall. 
The dead have chosen for their coronal. 
No buds that flaunt of life and flare and burn ; 

They have agreed. 
To choose a beauty puritan and stern. 

The universal grass, the homely weed. 

This is the paradise of common things. 

The scourged and trampled here find peace to grow. 
The frost to furrow and the wind to sow. 
The mighty sun to time their blossomings ; 

And now they keep 
A crown reflowering on the tombs of kings. 

Who earned their triumph and have claimed 
their sleep. 



28 IN THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 

Yea, each is here a prince in his own right, 
Who dwelt disguised amid the multitude. 
And when his time was come, in haughty mood. 
Shook off his motley and reclaimed his might ; 

His sombre throne 
In the vast province of perpetual night. 
He holds secure, inviolate, alone. 

The poor forgets that ever he was poor. 
The priest has lost his science of the truth. 
The maid her beauty, and the youth his youth. 
The statesman has forgot his subtle lure. 

The old his age. 
The sick his suffering, and the leech his cure, 
The poet his perplexed and vacant page. 

These swains that tilled the uplands in the sun 
Have all forgot the field's familiar face. 
And lie content within this ancient place. 
Whereto when hands were tired their thought would 
run 
To dream of rest. 
When the last furrow was turned down, and won 
The last harsh harvest from the earth's patient 
breast. 



IN THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 29 

dwellers in the valley vast and fair, 

I would that calling from your tranquil clime. 
You make a truce for me with cruel time ; 
For I am weary of this eager care 
That never dies ; 

1 would be born into your tranquil air. 

Your deserts crowned and sovereign silences. 



I would, but that the world is beautiful. 

And I am more in love with the sliding years, 
They have not brought me frantic joy or tears. 
But only moderate state and temperate rule ; 

Not to forget 
This quiet beauty, not to be Time's fool, 
I will be man a little longer yet. 

For lo, what beauty crowns the harvest hills ! — 
The buckwheat acres gleam like silver shields ; 
The oats hang tarnished in the golden fields ; 
Between the elms the yellow wheat-land fills ; 

The apples drop 
Within the orchard, where the red tree spills. 
The fragrant fruitage over branch and prop. 



30 IN THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 

The cows go lowing through the lovely vale ; 
The clarion peacock warns the world of rain, 
Perched on the barn a gaudy weather-vane ; 
The farm lad holloes from the shifted rail. 

Along the grove 
He beats a measure on his ringing pail. 

And sings the heart-song of his early love. 



There is a honey scent along the air ; 

The hermit thrush has tuned his fleeting note, 
Among the silver birches far remote 
His spirit voice appeareth here and there. 

To fail and fade, 
A visionary cadence falling fair, 

That lifts and lingers in the hollow shade. 

And now a spirit in the east, unseen. 
Raises the moon above her misty eyes. 
And travels up the veiled and starless skies, 
Viewing the quietude of her demesne ; 

Stainless and slow, 
I watch the lustre of her planet's sheen. 

From burnished gold to liquid silver flow. 



IN THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 31 

And now I leave the dead with you, O night ; 
You wear the semblance of their fathomless state, 
For you we long when the day's fire is great. 
And when stern life is cruellest in his might, 

Of death we dream : 
A country of dim plain and shadowy height. 

Crowned with strange stars and silences supreme: 

Rest here, for day is hot to follow you. 

Rest here until the morning star has come. 
Until is risen aloft dawn's rosy dome. 
Based deep on buried crimson into blue. 

And morn's desire 
Has made the fragile cobweb drenched with dew 
A net of opals veiled with dreamy fire. 



32 SONG 



SONG 

I HAVE done. 

Put by the lute ; 

Songs and singing soon are over. 

Soon as airy shades that hover 

Up above the purple clover — 

I have done, put by the lute. 

Once I sang as early thrushes 

Sing about the dewy bushes. 

Now I 'm mute ; 

I am like a weary linnet, 

For my throat has no song in it, 

I have had my singing minute. 

I have done. 

Put by the lute. 



THE MAGIC HOUSE 33 



THE MAGIC HOUSE 

In her chamber, wheresoe'er 
Time shall build the walls of it. 

Melodies shall minister. 
Mellow sounds shall flit 

Through a dusk of musk and myrrh. 

Lingering in the spaces vague. 
Like the breath within a f^ute. 

Winds shall move along the stair; 
When she walketh mute 

Music meet shall greet her there. 

Time shall make a truce with Time, 
All the languid dials tell 

Irised hours of gossamer. 
Eve perpetual 

Shall the night or light defer. 



34 THE MAGIC HOUSE 

From her casement she shall see 
Down a valley wild and dim. 

Swart with woods of pine and fir ; 
Shall the sunsets swim 

Red with untold gold to her. 

From her terrace she shall see 
Lines of birds like dusky motes 

Falling in the heated glare ; 
How an eagle floats 

In the wan unconscious air. 

From her turret she shall see 
Vision of a cloudy plaee^ 

Like a group of opal flowers 
On the verge of space. 

Or a town, or crown of towers. 

From her garden she shall hear 
Fall the cones between the pines ; 

She shall seem to hear the sea. 
Or behind the vines 

Some small noise, a voice may be. 



THE MAGIC HOUSE 35 

But no thing shall habit there. 

There no human foot shall fall. 
No sweet word the silence stir. 

Naught her name shall call, 
Nothing come to comfort her. 



But about the middle night, 
When the dusk is loathed most. 

Ancient thoughts and words long said, 
Like an alien host. 

There shall come unsummoned. 

With her forehead on her wrist 
She shall lean against the wall 

And see all the dream go by ; 
In the interval 

Time shall turn Eternity. 

But the agony shall pass — 

Fainting with unuttered prayer. 

She shall see the world's outlines 
And the weary glare 

And the bare unvaried pines. 



36 IN THE HOUSE OF DREAMS 



IN THE HOUSE OF DREAMS 



The lady Lillian knelt upon the sward^ 

Between the arbour and the almond leaves ; 
Beyond, the barley gathered into sheaves ; 

A blade of gladiolus, like a sword. 

Flamed fierce against the gold ; and down toward 
The limpid west, a pallid poplar wove 
A spell of shadow ; through the meadow drove 

A deep unbroken brook without a ford. 

A fountain flung and poised a golden ball ; 

On the soft grass a frosted serpent lay. 
With oval spots of opal over all ; 

Upon the basin's edge within the spray. 
Lulled by some craft of laughter in the fall. 

An ancient crow dreamed hours and hours away. 



IN THE HOUSE OF DREAMS 37 

II 
The lady watched the serpent and the crow 

For daySj then came a little naked lad. 

And smote the serpent with a spear he had ; 
Then stooped and caught the coil_, and straining slow. 
Took the lithe weight upon his shoulder, so. 

And tugged, but could not move the ponderous 
thing, 

Then flushing red with rage, his spear did fling, 
And cut the gladiolus at one blow. 

Then back he swung his flaming weapon high. 
And smote the snake and called a magic name ; 

Then the whole garden vanished utterly, 

And through a mist the lightning went and came. 

And flooded all the caverns of the sky, 
A rosy gulf of unimprisoned flame. 



38 THE RIVER TOWN 



THE RIVER TOWN 

There 's a town where shadows run 
In the sparkle and the blue. 

By the river and the sun 

Swept and flooded thro' and thro*. 

There the sailor trolls a song. 

There the sea-gull dips her wing, 

There the wind is clear and strong. 
There the waters break and swing. 

But at night with leaden sweep 
Come the clouds along the flood. 

Lifting in the vaulted deep 
Pinions of a giant brood. 

Charging by the slip, the whole 
River rushes black and sheer. 

There the great fish heave and roll 
In the gloom beyond the pier. 



THE RIVER TOWN 39 

All the lonely hollow town 
Towers above the windy quay^ 

And the ancient tide goes down 
With its secret to the sea. 



40 OFF THE ISLE AUX COUDRES 



OFF THE ISLE AUX COUDRES 

The moon, Capella, and the Pleiades 
Silver the river's grey uncertain floor ; 
Only a heron haunts the grassy shore ; 

A fox barks sharply in the cedar trees ; 

Then comes the lift and lull of plangent seas. 
Swaying the light marish grasses more and more 
Until they float, and the slow tide brims o'er, 

And then a rivulet runs along the breeze. 

O night ! thou art so beautiful, so strange, so sad ; 

I feel that sense of scope and ancientness. 
Of all the mighty empires thou hast had 

Dreaming of power beneath thy palace dome. 
Of how thou art untouched by their distress. 

Supreme above this dreaming land, my home. 



AT LES EBOULEMENTS 41 



AT LES EBOULEMENTS 

TO M. E. S. 

The bay is set with ashy sails, 

With purple shades that fade and flee, 

And curling by in silver wales. 
The tide is straining from the sea. 

The grassy points are slowly drowned. 

The water laps and over-rolls. 
The wicker peche ; with shallow sound 

A light wave labours on the shoals. 

The crows are feeding in the foam, ^ 
They rise in crowds tumultuously, 

' Come home,' they cry, ' come home, come 
home. 
And leave the marshes to the sea.' 



42 ABOVE ST. IRlfiNl^E 



ABOVE ST. IRENEE 

I RESTED on the breezy height. 
In cooler shade and clearer air. 
Beneath a maple tree ; 

Below, the mighty river took 
Its sparkling shade and sheeny light 
Down to the sombre sea. 

And clustered by the leaping brook. 
The roofs of white St. Irenee. 

Tfce sapphire hills on either hand 
Broke down upon the silver tide. 
The river ran in streams. 

In streams of mingled azure-grey, 
Vi^ith here a broken purple band. 
And whorls of drab, and beams 

Of shattered silver light astray. 
Where far away the south shore gleams. 



ABOVE ST. IR]&N^E 43 

I walked a mile along the height 
Between the flowers upon the road, 
Asters and golden-rod ; 

And in the gardens pinks and stocks. 
And gaudy poppies shaking light. 

And daisies blooming near the sod. 

And lowly pansies set in flocks. 
With purple monkshood overawed. 



And there I saw a little child 
Between the tossing golden-rod. 
Coming along to me ; 

She was a tender little thing. 
So fragile-sweet, so Mary-mild, 
I thought her name Marie ; 

No other name methought could cling 
To any one so fair as she. 



And when we came at last to meet, 
I spoke a simple word to her, 
' Where are you going, Marie ? ' 

She answered and she did not smile, 



44 ABOVE ST. IR^IN^E 

But oh ! her voice, — her voice so sweet, 
' Down to St. Irenee/ 

And so passed on to walk her mile. 
And left the lonely road to me. 

And as the night came on apace, 
With stars above the darkened hills, 
I heard perpetually. 

Chiming along the falling hours. 
On the deep dusk that mellow phrase, 
' Down to St. Irenee : ' 

It seemed as if the stars and flowers 
Should all go there with me. 



WRITTEN IN A. LAMPMAN'S POEMS 45 



WRITTEN IN A COPY OF ARCHIBALD 
LAMPMAN'S POEMS 

When April moved in maiden guise 
Hiding her sweet inviolate eyes. 
You saw about the hazel roots, 
Beyond the ruddy osier shoots, 
The violets rise. 

At even, in the lower woods. 
Amid the cedarn solitudes. 
You heard afar amid the hush 
The argent utterance of the thrush 
In slower interludes. 

When bees above in arboured rooms 
Were busy in the basswood blooms. 
You drowsed within the sombre drone. 
Dreaming, and deemed yourself alone. 
Harboured in glooms. 



46 WRITTEN IN A COPY OF 

The singing of the sentient bees 
Brought wisdom for perplexities ; 
They taught you all the murmured lore 
Of seas around an ancient shore. 
Of streams and trees. 

You saw the web of life unrolled, 
Fold and inweave, weave and unfold. 
Crimson and azure strand on strand. 
From some great gulf in vision-land. 
Deep and imtold. 

And as the soft clouds opal-gray 
Against the confines of the day 
Seem lighter for the depth of skies. 
So, lighter for your saddened eyes. 
Your fair thoughts stray. 

I pluck a bunch before the spring, 
Of field-flowers reflowering. 
Upon a fell that fancy weaves, 
A memory lingers in their leaves 
Of songs you sing. 



ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN'S POEMS 47 

You must have rested here sometime^ 
When thought was high and words in chime. 
Your seed thoughts left for sun and showers 
Have blossomed into pleasant flowers. 
Instead of rhyme. 

And so I bring them back to you, 
These pensile buds of tender hue. 
Of crimson, pink and purple sheen. 
Of yellow deep, and delicate green. 
Of white and blue. 



48 OFF RIVIERE DU LOUP 



OFF RIVIERE DU LOUP 

O SHIP incoming from the sea 

With all your cloudy tower of sail, 

Dashing the water to the lee, 
And leaning grandly to the gale ; 

The sunset pageant in the west 

Has filled your canvas curves with rose, 

And jewelled every toppling crest 
That crashes into silver snows ! 

You know the joy of coming home, 
After long leagues to France or Spain ; 

You feel the clear Canadian foam 
And the gulf water heave again. 

Between these sombre purple hills 
That cool the sunset's molten bars. 

You will go on as the wind wills. 
Beneath the river's roof of stars. 



OFF RIVlJlRE DU LOUP 49 

You will toss onward toward the lights 
That spangle over the lonely pier, 

By hamlets glimmering on the heights, 
By level islands black and clear. 

You will go on beyond the tide. 

Through brimming plains of olive sedge, 

Through paler shallows light and wide. 
The rapids piled along the ledge. 

At evening off some reedy bay 

You will swing slowly on your chain. 

And catch the scent of dewy hay. 
Soft blowing from the pleasant plain. 



60 AT THE CEDARS 



AT THE CEDARS 

TO W. W. C. 

You had two girls — Baptiste — 
One is Virginia — 
Hold hard — Baptiste ! 
Listen to me. 

The whole drive was jammed 
In that bend at the Cedars, 
The rapids were dammed 
With the logs tight rammed 
And crammed ; you might know 
The Devil had clinched them below. 

We worked three days — not a budge, 

' She 's as tight as a wedge, on the ledge/ 

Says our foreman ; 

^ Mon Dieu ! boys, look here, 

We must get this thing clear.' 



AT THE CEDARS 61 

He cursed at the men 
And we went for it then ; 
With our cant-dogs arow. 
We just gave he-yo-ho ; 
When she gave a big shove 
From above. 

The gang yelled and tore 
For the shore. 
The logs gave a grind 
Like a wolf's jaws behind. 
And as quick as a flash. 
With a shove and a crash, 
They were down in a mash. 
But I and ten more. 
All but Isaac Dufour, 
Were ashore. 

He leaped on a log in the front of the 

rush. 
And shot out from the bind 
While the jam roared behind; 
As he floated along 
He balanced his pole 



52 AT THE CEDARS 

And tossed us a song. 

But just as we cheered. 

Up darted a log from the bottom. 

Leaped thirty feet square and fair. 

And came down on his own. 



He went up hke a block 

With the shock. 

And when he was there 

In the air. 

Kissed his hand 

To the land ; 

When he dropped 

My heart stopped, 

For the first logs had caught him 

And crushed him ; 

When he rose in his place 

There was blood on his face. 



There were some girls, Baptiste, 
Picking berries on the hillside. 
Where the river curls, Baptiste, 
You know — on the still side 



AT THE CEDARS 63 

One was down by the water^ 
She saw Isaac 
Fall back. 

She did not scream, Baptiste, 
She launched her canoe ; 
It did seem, Baptiste, 
That she wanted to die too. 
For before you could think 
The birch cracked like a shell 
In that rush of hell. 
And I saw them both sink — 

Baptiste ! — 

He had two girls. 

One is Virginie, 

What God calls the other 

Is not known to me. 



54 THE END OF THE DAY 



THE END OF THE DAY 

I HEAR the bells at eventide 

Peal slowly one by one^ 
Near and far off they break and glide. 

Across the stream float faintly beautiful 

The antiphonal bells of Hull ; 
The day is done, done, done. 

The day is done. 

The dew has gathered in the flowers. 

Like tears from some unconscious deep : 
The swallows whirl around the towers. 

The light runs out beyond the long cloud bars. 

And leaves the single stars : 
'Tis time for sleep, sleep, sleep, 

'Tis time for sleep. 



THE END OF THE DAY 56 

The hermit thrush begins again, — 

Timorous eremite — 
That song of risen tears and pain, 

As if the one he loved was far away : 

' Alas ! another day — ' 
^ And now Good Night, Good Night/ 

' Good Night.' 



66 THE REED-PLAYER 



THE REED-PLAYER 

TO B. C. 

By a dim shore where water darkening 

Took the last light of spring, 
I went beyond the tumult, hearkening 

For some diviner thing. 

Where the bats flew from the black elms like leaves. 

Over the ebon pool 
Brooded the bittern's cry, as one that grieves 

Lands ancient, bountiful. 

I saw the fireflies shine below the wood. 

Above the shallows dank. 
As Uriel from some great altitude. 

The planets rank on rank. 

And now unseen along the shrouded mead 

One went under the hill ; 
He blew a cadence on his mellow reed. 

That trembled and was still. 



THE REED-PLAYER 67 

It seemed as if a line of amber fire 

Had shot the gathered dusk. 
As if had blown a wind from ancient Tyre 

Laden with myrrh and musk. 

He gave his luring note amid the fern ; 

Its enigmatic fall 
Haunted the hollow dusk with golden turn 

And argent interval. 

I could not know the message that he bore. 

The springs of life from me 
Hidden; his incommunicable lore 

As much a mystery. 

And as I followed far the magic player 

He passed the maple wood. 
And when I passed the stars had risen there, 

And there was solitude. 



68 A FLOCK OF SHEEP 

A FLOCK OF SHEEP 

TO C. G. D. R. 

Over the field the bright air clings and tingles. 
In the gold sunset while the red wind swoops ; 

Upon the nibbled knolls and from the dingles. 
The sheep are gathering in frightened groups. 

From the wide field the laggards bleat and follow, 
A drover hurls his cry and hooting laugh ; 

And one young swain, too glad to whoop or hollo. 
Is singing wildly as he whirls his staff. 

Now crowding into little groups and eddies 
They swirl about and charge and try to pass ; 

The sheep-dog yelps and heads them off and steadies 
And rounds and moulds them in a seething mass. 

They stand a moment with their heads uplifted 
Till the wise dog barks loudly on the flank. 

They all at once roll over and are drifted 
Down the small hill toward the river bank. 



A FLOCK OF SHEEP 59 

Covered with rusty marks and purple blotches 
Around the fallen bars they flow and leap ; 

The wary dog stands by and keenly watches 
As if he knew the name of every sheep. 

Now down the road the nimble sound decreases. 
The drovers cry, the dog delays and whines. 

And now with twinkling feet and glimmering fleeces 
They round and vanish past the dusky pines. 

The drove is gone, the ruddy wind grows colder. 
The singing youth puts up the heavy bars. 

Beyond the pines he sees the crimson smoulder. 
And catches in his eyes the early stars. 



60 A PORTRAIT 



A PORTRAIT 

All her hair is softly set, 
Like a misty coronet. 
Massing darkly on her brow, 
Like the pines above the snow ; 
And her eyebrows lightly drawn. 
Slender clouds above the dawn. 
Or like ferns above her eyes. 
Ferns and pools in Paradise. 

Her sweet mouth is like a flower. 
Like a poppy full of power. 
Shaken light and crimson stain. 
Pressed together by the rain, 
Glowing liquid in the sun. 
When the rain is done. 



A PORTRAIT 61 



When she moves, her motionings 
Seem to shadow hidden wings ; 
So the cuckoo going to light 
Takes a little further flight. 
Fluttering onward, poised there. 
Half in grass and half in air. 



When she speaks, her girlish voice 
Makes a very pleasant noise. 
Like a brook that hums along 
Under leaves an undersong : 
When she sings, her voice is clear. 
Like the waters swerving sheer. 
In the sunlight magical, 
Down a ringing fall. 



Here her spirit came to dwell 

From the passionate Israfel ; 

One of those great songs of his 

Rounded to a soul like this ; 

And when she seems so strange at even. 

He must be singing in the heaven ; 



62 A PORTRAIT 

When she wears that charmed smile. 
Listening, listening all the while. 
She is stirred with kindred things, 
Starry fire and sweeping wings. 
And the seraph's sobbing strings. 



AT THE LATTICE 63 



AT THE LATTICE 

Good-night, Marie, I kiss thine eyes, 

A tender touch on either lid ; 
They cover, as a cloud, the skies 

Where like a star your soul lies hid. 

My love is like a fire that flows, 

This touch will leave a tiny scar, 
I '11 claim you by it for my rose. 

My rose, my own, where'er you are. 

And when you bind your hair, and when 

You lie within your silken nest. 
This kiss will visit you again. 

You will not rest, my love, you will not rest. 



64 THE FIRST SNOW 



THE FIRST SNOW 



The field pools gathered into frosted lace ; 
An icy glitter lined the iron ruts. 
And bound the circle of the musk-rat huts ; 

A junco flashed about a sunny space 

Where rose stems made a golden amber grace ; 
Between the dusky alders' woven ranks, 
A stream thought yet about his summer banks. 

And made an August music in the place. 

Along the horizon's faded shrunken lines. 
Veiling the gloomy borders of the night. 

Hung the great snow clouds washed with 
pallid gold ; 
And stealing from his covert in the pines. 
The wind, encouraged to a stinging flight. 
Dropped in the hollow conquered by the cold. 



THE FIRST SNOW 65 



Then a light cloud rose up for hardihood. 

Trailing a veil of snow that whirled and broke, 
Blown softly like a shroud of steam or smoke. 

Sallied across a knoll where maples stood, 

Charged over broken country for a rood, 

Then seeing the night withdrew his force and 

fled, 
Leaving the ground with snow-flakes thinly 
spread, 

And traces of the skirmish in the wood. 

The stars sprang out and flashed serenely near. 
The solid frost came down with might and 
main. 
It set the rivers under bolt and bar ; 
Bang ! went the starting eaves beneath the 
strain. 
And e'er Orion saw the morning-star 
The winter was the master of the year. 



IN NOVEMBER 



IN NOVEMBER 

TO J. A. R. 

The ruddy sunset lies 
Banked along the west ; 

In flocks with sweep and rise 
The birds are going to rest. 

The air clings and cools,, 
And the reeds look cold. 

Standing above the pools. 
Like rods of beaten gold. 

The flaunting golden-rod 
Has lost her worldly mood, 

She 's given herself to God, 
And taken a nun's hood. 

The wild and wanton horde. 
That kept the summer revel. 

Have taken the serge and cord, 
And given the slip to the Devil. 



IN NOVEMBER 67 

The winter's loose somewhere. 

Gathering snow for a fight ; 
From the feel of the air 

T think it will freeze to-night. 



68 THE SLEEPER 



THE SLEEPER 

Touched with some divine repose, 
Isabelle has fallen asleep. 

Like the perfume from the rose 
In and out her breathings creep. 

Dewy are her rosy palms. 
In her cheek the flushes flit. 

And a dream her spirit calms 
With the pleasant thought of it. 

All the rounded heavens show 
Like the concave of a pearl. 

Stars amid the opal glow 
Little fronds of flame unfurl. 

Then upfloats a planet strange. 
Not the moon that mortals know. 

With a magic mountain range. 
Cones and craters white as snow : 



THE SLEEPER 

Something different yet the same — 
Rain by rainbows glorified, 

Roses lit with lambent flame^ — 
'Tis the maid moon's other side. 

When the sleeper floats from sleep^ 
She will smile the vision o'er. 

See the veined valleys deep. 
No one ever saw before. 

Yet the moon is not betrayed, 
(Ah ! the subtle Isabelle !) 

She 's a maiden, and a maid 
Maiden secrets will not tell. 



70 A NIGHT IN JUNE 



A NIGHT IN JUNE 

The world is heated seven times. 
The sky is close above the lawn, 
An oven when the coals are drawn. 

There is no stir of air at all. 
Only at times an inward breeze 
Turns back a pale leaf in the trees. 

Here the syringa's rich perfume 
Covers the tulip's red retreat, 
A burning pool of scent and heat. 

The pallid lightning wavers dim 

Between the trees, then deep and dense 
The darkness settles more intense. 

A hawk lies panting in the grass, 
Or plunges upward through the air, 
The lightning shows him whirling there. 



A NIGHT IN JUNE 71 

A bird calls madly from the eaves^ 
Then stops, the silence all at once 
Disturbed, falls dead again and stuns. 

A redder lightning flits about. 
But in the north a storm is rolled 
That splits the gloom with vivid gold ; 

Dead silence, then a little sound. 

The distance chokes the thunder down. 
It shudders faintly in the town. 

A fountain plashing in the dark 
Keeps up a mimic dropping strain ; 
Ah ! God, if it were really rain ! 



72 MEMORY 



MEMORY 

I SEE a schooner in the bay 

Cutting the current into foam ; 

One day she flies and then one day 
Comes like a swallow veering home. 

I hear a water miles away 

Go sobbing down the wooded glen ; 
One day it lulls and then one day 

Comes sobbing on the wind again. 

Remembrance goes but will not stay ; 

That cry of unpermitted pain 
One day departs and then one day 

Comes sobbing to my heart again. 



YOUTH AND TIME 73 



YOUTH AND TIME 

Move not so lightly. Time, away. 

Grant us a breathing-space of tender ruth ; 

Deal not so harshly with the flying day, 

Leave us the charm of spring, the touch of youth. 

Leave us the lilacs wet with dew. 

Leave us the balsams odorous with rain. 

Leave us of frail hepaticas a few. 

Let the red osier sprout for us again. 

Leave us the hazel thickets set 

Along the hills, leave us a month that yields 
The fragile bloodroot and the violet. 

Leave us the sorrage shimmering on the fields. 

You offer us largess of power. 

You offer fame, we ask not these in sooth, 
These comfort age upon his failing hour. 

But oh, the charm of spring, the touch of youth ! 



74 A MEMORY OF THE ^INFERNO 



A MEMORY OF THE INFERNO' 

An hour before the dawn I dreamed of you ; 
Your spirit made a smile upon your face. 
As fleeting as the visionary grace 
That music lends to words ; and when it flew, 
I thought of how the maid Francesca grew. 
So lovely at Ravenna, until Time 
Ripened the fruit of her immortal crime. 
As pure as light my vision took this hue 
To paint our sorrow : so your lips made moan ; 
' Upon that day we read no more therein ' : 
I wept, such tears Paolo might have known ; 
And all the love, the immemorial pain. 
Swept down upon me as I felt begin. 
That furious circle rage and reel again. 



LA BELLE FERONlijRE 75 



LA BELLE FERONIERE 

I NEVER trod where Leonardo was. 

Then why art thou within this house of dreams. 

Strange Lady ? From thy face a memory streams, 
Of things, forgotten now, that came to pass ; 
The flower of Milan floated in thy glass : 

Thy dreaming smile ; thy subtle loveliness ! 

Ah ! laughter airier far than ours, I guess, 
Lighted thy brow, fleeter than fire in grass. 

Yet, there is something fateful in thy face : 

Say, when the master caught it, didst thou know. 

Almost thy name would perish with thy grace. 
Thine artifices melt away like snow. 

And all the power within this painted space. 
Be his alone to hold and haunt us so ? 



76 A NOVEMBER DAY 



A NOVEMBER DAY 

There are no clouds above the world. 
But just a round of limpid grey, 

Barred here with nacreous lines unfurled. 
That seem to crown the autumnal day. 

With rings of silver chased and pearled. 

The moistened leaves along the ground. 
Lie heavy in an aureate floor ; 

The air is lingering in a swound ; 
Afar from some enchanted shore. 

Silence has blown instead of sound. 

The trees all flushed with tender pink 
Are floating in the liquid air. 

Each twig appears a shadowy link. 
To keep the branches moored there. 

Lest all might drift or sway and sink. 



A NOVEMBER DAY 77 

This world might be a valley low. 
In some lost ocean grey and old_, 

Where sea-plants film the silver flow. 
Where waters swing above the gold 

Of galleons sunken long ago. 



78 OTTAWA 



OTTAWA 

City about whose brow the north winds blow. 
Girdled with woods and shod with river foam. 
Called by a name as old as Troy or Rome, 

Be great as they, but pure as thine own snow ; 

Rather flash up amid the auroral glow. 
The Lamia city of the northern star. 
Than be so hard with craft or wild with war. 

Peopled with deeds remembered for their woe. 

Thou art too bright for guile, too young for tears, 
And thou wilt live to be too strong for Time ; 
For he may mock thee with his furrowed frowns. 
But thou wilt grow in calm throughout the years. 
Cinctured with peace and crowned with power 
sublime. 
The maiden queen of all the towered towns. 



SONG 79 



SONG 

Here 's the last rose. 
And the end of June, 
With the tulips gone 
And the lilacs strewn ; 
A light wind blows 
From the golden west. 
The bird is charmed 
To her secret nest : 
Here 's the last rose — 
In the violet sky 
A great star shines. 
The gnats are drawn 
To the purple pines ; 
On the magic lawn 
A shadow flows 
From the summer moon : 
Here's the last rose, 
And the end of the tune. 



80 NIGHT AND THE PINES 



NIGHT AND THE PINES 

Here in the pine shade is the nest of night. 

Lined deep with shadows, odorous and dim. 
And here he stays his sweeping flight. 

Here where the strongest wind is lulled for him. 
He lingers brooding until dawn. 
While all the trembling stars move on and on. 

Under the cliff there drops a lonely fall. 

Deep and half heard its thunder lifts and booms ; 
Afar the loons with eerie call 

Haunt all the bays, and breaking through the 
glooms 
Upfloats that cry of light despair. 
As if a demon laughed upon the air. 

A raven croaks from out his ebon sleep. 

When a brown cone falls near him through the 
dark; 

And when the radiant meteors sweep 
Afar within the larches wakes the lark ; 



NIGHT AND THE PINES 81 

The wind moves on the cedar hill, 

Tossing the weird cry of the whip-poor-will. 

Sometimes a titan wind, slumbrous and hushed. 

Takes the dark grove within his swinging power ; 
And like a cradle softly pushed. 

The shade sways slowly for a lulling hour ; 
While through the cavern sweeps a cry, 
A Sibyl with her secret prophecy. 

When morning lifts its fragile silver dome, 
And the first eagle takes the lonely air. 
Up from his dense and sombre home 

The night sweeps out, a tireless wayfarer. 
Leaving within the shadows deep. 
The haunting mood and magic of his sleep. 

And so we cannot come within this grove. 

But all the quiet dusk remembrance brings 
Of ancient sorrow and of hapless love. 

Fate, and the dream of power, and piercing things 
Traces of mystery and might. 
The passion-sadness of the soul of night. 



82 A NIGHT IN MARCH 



A NIGHT IN MARCH 

At eve the fiery sun went forth 

Flooding the clouds with ruby bloody 

Up roared a war-wind from the north 

And crashed at midnight through the wood. 

The demons danced about the trees. 

The snow slipped singing over the wold. 

And ever when the wind would cease 
A lynx cried out within the cold. 

A spirit walked the ringing rooms. 
Passing the locked and secret door, 

Heavy with divers ancient dooms. 
With dreams dead laden to the core. 

' Spirit, thou art too deep with woe, 
I have no harbour place for thee. 

Leave me to lesser griefs, and go. 
Go with the great wind to the sea.' 



A NIGHT IN MARCH 83 

I faftered like a frightened child. 

That fears its nurse's fairy brood. 
And as I spoke, I heard the wild 

Wind plunging through the shattered wood. 

' Hast thou betrayed the rest of kings. 
With tragic fears and spectres wan, 

My dreams are lit with purer things. 
With humbler ghosts, begone, begone.' 

The noisy dark was deaf and blind. 

Still the strange spirit strayed or stood. 

And I could only hear the wind 
Go roaring through the riven wood. 

' Art thou the fate for some wild heart. 
That scorned his cavern's curve and bars. 

That leaped the bounds of time and art. 
And lost thee lingering near the stars ? '. 

It was so still I heard my thought. 

Even the wind was very still, 
The desolate deeper silence brought 

The lynx-moan from the lonely hill. 



84 A NIGHT IN MARCH 

' Art thou the thing I might have been, 
If all the dead had known control. 

Risen through the ages' trembling sheen, 
A mirage of my desert soul ? ' 

The wind rushed down the roof in wrath. 
Then shrieked and held its breath and stood, 

Like one who finds beside his path, 
A dead girl in the marish wood. 

^ Or have I ceased, as those who die 
And leave the broken word unsaid, 

Art thou the spirit ministry 

That hovers round the newly dead ? ' 

The auroras rose in solitude, 

And wanly paled within the room. 

The window showed an ebon rood. 
Upon the blanched and ashen gloom. 

I heard a voice within the dark. 
That answered not my idle word, 

I could not choose but pause and hark. 
It was so magically stirred. 



A NIGHT IN MARCH 86 

It grew within the quiet hour. 

With the rose shadows on the wall, 

It had a touch of ancient power, 
A wild and elemental fall ; 

Its rapture had a dreaming close : 
The dawn grew slowly on the wold. 

Spreading in fragile veils of rose. 
In tender lines of lemon-gold. 

The world was turning into light. 
Was sweeping into life and peace. 

And folded in the fading night, 
I felt the dawning sink and cease. 



86 SEPTEMBER 



SEPTEMBER 

The morns are grey with haze and faintly cold. 

The early sunsets arc the west with red ; 

The stars are misty silver overhead, 
Above the dawn Orion lies outroUed. 
Now all the slopes are slowly growing gold. 

And in the dales a deeper silence dwells ; 

The crickets mourn with funeral flutes and bells. 
For days before the summer had grown old. 

Now the night-gloom with hurrying wings is stirred, 
Strangely the comrade pipings rise and sink. 
The birds are following in the pathless dark 
The footsteps of the pilgrim summer. Hark ! 
Was that the redstart or the bobolink ? 
That lonely cry the summer-hearted bird ? 



BY THE WILLOW SPRING 87 



BY THE WILLOW SPRING 

TO E. W. 

Come hither. Care, and look on this fair place. 

But leave your gossip and your puckered face 

Beyond that flowering carrot in the glow. 

Where the red poppies in the orchard blow, 

And come with gentle feet ; the last thing there 

Was a white butterfly upon the air. 

And even now a thrush was in the grass. 

To feel the sovereign water slowly pass. 

This pool is quiet as oblivion. 

Hidden securely from the flooding sun ; 

Its crystal placid surface here receives 

The wan grey under light of the willow leaves ; 

And shy things brood about the grass unheard ; 

Only in sunny distance sings the bird. 

O Time long dead, O days reclaimed and done, 

Thou broughtest joy and tears to every one. 

And here by this deep pool thou wast not slow, 

To deal a maiden all her tender woe ; 



88 BY THE WILLOW SPRING 

Be kindlier to her now that she is dead. 
Let her charmed spirit visit this well-head 
More often, for at eve in honey-time, 
Drifting in silence from her ghostly clime, 
She haunts the pool about the willows pale : 
Be gentle, for my feeling art may fail, 
I '11 freshen sorrow and retell her tale. 

She was a fragile daughter of the earth. 
And touched with faery from her fatal birth ; 
For many summers she was hardly shy. 
Not clouded with her hovering destiny, 
But only wild as any woodland thing, 
That comes at even to a trodden spring ; 
And scarce she seemed of any settled mood. 
That lights the peaceful hills of maidenhood. 
But shifted strangely on the whimsy air. 
Not quiet nor contented anywhere. 
She gathered sunshine in an earthen cruse, 
And thought to keep it for her own sweet use ; 
Or fluttered flowers from her window high, 
And wept upon them when they would not fly ; 
And when she found the brownish mignonette 
Had blossomed where a little seed was set, 



BY THE WILLOW SPRING 89 

She planted her rag playmate in the sun_, 

Because she wanted yet another one ; 

And when she heard the enraptured sparrow sing, 

She clamoured for a song from everything. 

For many years she was as strange and free. 

As a pine linnet in a cedar tree. 

Her folk thought : She is very wild and odd. 

But she is good, we '11 wait and trust in God. 

O love, that watched the weird and charmed child. 

Change from her airy fancies sweet and mild. 

Like a blue brook that clears a meadow spring. 

And threads the barley where the bobolinks sing, 

Then wimples by the roots of dusky firs. 

And gathers darkness in those deeps of hers. 

Then makes an arrowy movement through a pass. 

Where rocks are crannied with the clinging grass. 

Then falls, almost dissolved in silver rain. 

She gathers deeply to a pool again ; 

But something wild in her new spirit lies. 

She never can regain her limpid eyes : 

O love, alas ! 'twas ever so to be. 

When streams set out to reach the bitter sea. 

It was a time within the early spring. 

Before the orchards had done blossoming. 



90 BY THE WILLOW SPRING 

Before the kinglet on his northern search. 

Had ceased his timorous piping in the birch. 

When streams were bright before the coming leaves 

And gurgled like the swallows in the eaves. 

She wandered led by fancy to this place. 

And looked upon the water's crystal face ; 

She saw — what thmg of beauty or of awe 

I know not, no one knoweth what she saw. 

But ever after she was constant here. 

As silent as her shadow in the mere. 

Sitting upon a stone which many feet 

Had grooved and trodden for the water sweet, 

And leaning gravely on her slanted arm. 

Her fingers buried in the gravel warm. 

She gazed and gazed and did not speak or sigh. 

As if this gazing was her destiny. 

They led her nightly from the magic pool. 

Before the shadows grew too deep and cool ; 

They thought to win her from the liquid spell. 

And tried to tease the elfin maid to tell, 

What was the charm that led her to the spring ; 

But all their words availed not anything. 

Then gazed they on the surface of the pool 

To read the reason of such subtle rule : 



BY THE WILLOW SPRING 91 

Their eyes were overclouded, they could see 
(Who had drawn water there perpetually) 
Nothing but water in a depth serene, 
With a few moony stones of palish green. 
They thought perchance it was her face she saw 
And answered, beauty unto beauty's law, 
But when they showed her image in a glass. 
She was not cured and nothing came to pass ; 
So then they left her to her own strange will. 
And here she stayed when the fair pool was 

still. 
But when the wind would hurl the heavy rain. 
She peered out sadly from her window-pane ; 
And when the night set wildly close and deep, 
She took her trouble down the dale of sleep : 
But when the night was warm and no dew fell. 
She waked and dreamed beside the starlit well. 

Then came a change, each day some offering ^ 
She laid beside the clear soft flowing spring ; 
And there she found them at the break of morn. 
And everything would take away forlorn ; 
Until beside the unconscious spring was laid 
Each treasure held most precious by a maid. 



92 BY THE WILLOW SPRING 

After, she offered flowers and often set 

A bowlful of the pleasant mignonette. 

And starred the stones with the narcissus white. 

And pansies left athinking all the night. 

Then ruffled dewy dahlias, and at last. 

When sundown told the summer-time had passed. 

The stained asters ; but from day to day. 

Sadly she took the untouched flowers away. 

With autumn and the sounding harvest flute. 

She brought her timid god the heavy fruit ; 

But found it still and cool at early dawn. 

Beaded with dew upon the crispy lawn. 

At last one eve she placed an apple here. 

Smooth as a topaz and as golden clear. 

Scented like almonds, with a flesh like dew 

And luscious-sweet as honey through and through. 

She left it sadly on the sleepy lawn. 

But when she came again her apple gold was gone. 

Day after day for days she mutely strove. 
Not to be separate from her placid love ; 
Perchance she thought that, breaking through the 

spell. 
Her shadow-god, deep in the tranquil well, 



BY THE WILLOW SPRING 93 

Had taken her last gift ; — no man may know ; 
Her fancies merged with all mute things that go 
The poppied path, dreams and desires foredone, 
The unplucked roses of oblivion. 
But now she searched for words that would 

express 
Something of all her spirit's loneliness ; 
And formed a liquid jargon, full of falls 
As weird and wild as ariel madrigals ; 
Our human tongue was far too harsh for this. 
Or her slight spirit bore too great a bliss ; 
But always grew she very faint and pale, 
Day after day her beauty grew more frail. 
More mute, more eerie^ more ethereal ; 
Her soul burned whitely in its waning shell. 

Then came the winter with his frosty breath 
And made the world an image of white death. 
And like to death he found the charmed child ; 
Yet could not kill her with his bluster wild. 
Only in his first days she went about. 
And sadly hearkened to his hearty shout ; 
From windows where the wizard frost had traced 
Moth-wings of rime with silver ferns inlaced. 



94 BY THE WILLOW SPRING 

She saw her pool set coldly in the drift, 
Where in the autumn she had left her gift. 
Capped with a cloud of silver steam or smoke. 
That hovered there whether she dreamed or 

woke; 
And often stealing from her early sleep, 
She watched the light cloud in the midnight deep. 
Waver and blow beneath the moon's white globe. 
Shivering and whispering in her chilly robe. 
At last she would not look or speak at all. 
And turned her large eyes to the shaded wall. 
Now she is dead, they thought ; but never so. 
She died not when the winter winds did blow ; 
She was a spirit of the summer air. 
She would not vanish at the year s despair. 

At length the merry sun grew warm and high. 
And changed the wildwood with his alchemy ; 
The violet reared her bell of drooping gold. 
And over her the robin chimed and trolled. 
When the first slender moon of May had come, 
That finds the blithe bird busy at his home. 
They missed the spirit maiden from the room. 
That now was sweet with light and spring perfume. 



BY THE WILLOW SPRING 95 

And called her all the echoing afternoon ; 
She answered not_, but when the growmg moon 
Went down the west with the last bird awing. 
They found her dead beside her darling spring. 

This is her tale, her murmurous monument 
Flows softly where her fragile life was spent. 
Not grooved in brass nor trenched in pallid stone. 
But told by water to the reeds alone. 

She Cometh here sometimes on summer eves. 

Her quiet spirit lingers in the leaves. 

And while this spring flows on, and while the wands 

Sway in the moonlight, while in drifting bands. 

The thistledown blows gleaming in the air. 

And dappled thrushes haunt the precinct fair ; 

She will return, she will return and lean 

Above the crystal in the covert green. 

And dream of beauty on the shadow flung 

Of irised distance when the world was young. 

Let us be gone ; this is no place for tears. 
Let us go slowly with the guardian years ; 
Let us be brave, the day is almost done, 
Another setting of the pleasant sun. 



Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, 
at the Edinburgh University Press. 



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